


A Hound with a Thorn in His Paw

by Keller_Bloom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keller_Bloom/pseuds/Keller_Bloom
Summary: A reimagining of Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane's meeting after the battle of Winterfell in Season 8. This is very much a TV Game of Thrones story and a cathartic fix-it for me as a SanSan stan.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 59
Kudos: 223





	1. Chapter 1

The battle against the dead had been a long dark slog. It was over now at least, and Winterfell was more tomb than castle in the cold dark night. The clean up would be the new sun’s task, for now all the allied forces hunkered down against the cold inside the unspoiled parts of the great castle and tried to get some sleep. A grand feast to celebrate the dead and their victory had been promised for the following evening but for now the wounded were to be seen to and the fighters sent to rest. Sandor Clegane made himself as comfortable as he could in the barracks alongside Tormund and the other surviving wildlings. There were more bunks to go around tonight than there had been for days, a testament to their loses. The battle had taken its toll on all of them alright, but Sandor’s hand throbbed like hell. He’d taken a dagger straight through his left palm. He’d had to pull the blade out himself before quartering the fucking walker who had driven it in there. He’d bound it as best he could, but it still openly bled. Tormund had said that it needed looking at tonight, but he’d told him to shove his advice up his arse. He was tired, tired to his very bones, tired to the core of his black and unworthy soul. He dropped into his bunk still dressed, still muddy, still bleeding and drifted off into a deep sleep.

The next morning came too soon. There was dirty work to be done that day and so all of the men had been roused before the sun got too high. All the bodies had to be piled. The Northmen and their allies had to be piled separately from the walkers so they could receive their proper death rites. The Hound saw no use in this other than sentimental bullshit. If he had died then he had expected to have been buried in a deep pit outside of the castle along with all the other meat. There would be none of this funeral pyre and wailing women shite at his passing. Still, it was at the Dragon Queen’s request that it had to be done and so he dragged his aching body out into the cold North’s crisp air and lugged the dead aside for most of the morning. His hand hurt like the blazers. Eventually he’d aggregated it enough with his work that it developed its own heat and its own heartbeat. It hurt so much that eventually he could no longer squeeze his fingers to his palm, but it was only after Tormund had taken the piss out of him enough that he finally stalked off to the castle to seek the hastily erected healing halls.

The halls were full to bursting. Camp beds and cots were strewn wherever there was space for one. Each contained a wounded survivor of the dark and terrible night that had been the battle for Winterfell. Each person, young or old, male or female at different stages of hurt were attended to by North women. The women shuffled quickly from bed to bed doing their best to make everyone comfortable. It was clear to Sandor that not all of them would survive, and he guessed he might be carrying more corpses to the pyres before the feast was ready. Well, he might do if he could get his blasted hand looked at. He tried to catch one of the women’s eyes, but they were busy moving through the cots. If he could only find some clean wrappings and a needle and thread then he might be able to take care of it himself without disturbing anyone. There was a small commotion at the other end of the hall and he used the distraction to move further into the rows and search for some supplies. After a moment a voice stopped him.

“What are you doing?”

One of the would-be-nurses stood looking at him disgusted. Was it his scarred face that made her look so repulsed or her misconception that he was trying to steal? It didn’t matter which for either way it got his back up.

“What do you think I’m doing you stupid bitch?” he growled loudly, “I’ve come to get my fucking hand healed.”

The woman took a few steps back in alarm at his tone. He towered over her by a good two feet and he was probably twice as wide as her. She looked afraid.

“I’ll take care of this one.” Said a familiar voice from behind him. It was wry and commanding and showed no hint of fear. He turned to see The Lady of Winterfell herself, Sansa Stark, standing and looking evenly at him. She did not wince, she did not look away, she was not afraid of him anymore.

“Come dog,” she motioned to a door a little way through the room, “you are frightening my healers with your barking.”

Stunned he followed her without complaint. The door led to a small kitchen with windows out into the courtyard. She motioned for him to sit at a chair pulled up against the butchers block whilst she gathered some supplies from around the room.

“Turned nurse now have you?” he grunted as she returned to where he was sat and began to remove his bloodied wrappings.

“I have to be seen to do my part, it’s good for morale. Though you will be my first and only patient, so you’d better not die.”

He huffed. It might have been a laugh but Sansa couldn’t quite tell. She looked down at his hand.

“You should have had this seen to last night.” She stated before drawing a bowl of water and throwing in some cleansing herbs.

He sat looking away from her, he didn’t trust himself not to stare. She was in her twenties now, a true woman and she looked it. What had been a soft childish prettiness that had once caught his eye years ago was now a severe and striking beauty. Gone were the girlish giggles and pretty frightened eyes, in their place stood a steely strength and assuredness that shone through an overpoweringly beautiful face and womanly body. He noticed too that the colour was gone from her. Not from her hair, which still flamed as red as the setting sun, but rather from her clothes and her cheeks. Where once he had accompanied her in soft pink silks, loose forms hanging from that thin frame, barely kept together by ties and silver buckles, now she stood tightly covered in all black. Her chest was covered in leather, laced tight with no loose ties on show. Her sleeves were tied up tight against her wrists and her collar stretched up her neck betraying none of her collar bone or the soft skin beneath. In fact, the only skin that could be seen now on Lady Stark was her face and hands and that was only because she had removed her gloves.

Taking his left hand in both of hers she submerged it in the water and began to clean the wound. He hissed with the initial pain but soon resumed saying nothing.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” She murmured conversely not looking up from her work. He turned to face her then. She’d surprised him again.

“I’ve got no business in seeking out the Lady of fucking Winterfell.” He always swore when his back was up, and somehow her words had rankled him.

“Not even for old time’s sake?”

He shook his head, “I wouldn’t have thought that you’d want to be reminded of those times.”

She met his gaze, evenly and unblinking. He felt as though she were reading him through his very skin.

“Perhaps,” she agreed, and then looked back down at her work, “though I’ve had worse since.”

His throat went dry, “I heard.”

She did not look back up at him and kept massaging his palm with her thumbs in the water. “Did you? And what did you hear?”

“That you were broken in, rough.” He regretted his choice of words almost as soon as they had left his lips. Sansa slipped her hands out of the bowl and dried them on a rag which she held out to him. He followed suit not daring to look at her again.

“That needs stitching.” She stated and with expert hands readied a needle and thread. “You see, I found a use for my pretty skills after all,” she said wryly, taking his hand and holding it flat, “though I must confess I have never had to stitch the flesh of anyone but myself. I will try to be quick.”

Sandor withdrew his hand, “You learnt to stitch your own skin? What the fuck did he do to you?” His voice was angry again though if it bothered her she did not show it, she simply reached back for his hand and set to her sewing.

Eventually after a moment she spoke. “He got what he deserved,” she murmured, “I gave it to him.”

“How?”

She met his eyes, “Hounds.”

He laughed in surprise and her eyes shone back with mirth and a wolf’s hunger. He studied her and realised that she might be deadly now in so many new ways

“You’ve changed little bird.”

“Yes.”

Her needle pricked him deeper and he hissed in response. She did not apologise or even acknowledge his pain, she just continued with her stitching.

“You turned that gilded cage into armour. Look at you, all covered up, laced in tight, all black and leather now. No fucker is getting to you again are they? You made chainmail out of those feathers little bird.”

“No,” she cut in, “I am not your little bird anymore.” She snipped the last thread and moved to wash her hands. She had done a very neat job of it and his hand felt better already.

“Aye,” he muttered, “I can see that now.”

Heading for the door she paused for a moment before passing through back into the hall. “Come and find me at the feast tonight.” And then she was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

The bawdy cries of the celebration were beginning to grate on his nerves, as was the pigswill they called wine served to the noisy rabble. These Northmen had a tongue for ale but no taste in wine at all it seemed. Sandor was trying to make the best of it, but his mood was dark. He’d not gone to find his little bird as she had commanded, preferring instead to glower over his cup at the top table where all the noble cunts ate, drank and made merry. She was amongst them of course, merry and measured in the same breath, welcoming and cold to all around her, still laced in tight from neck to toe with no chink in her armour. He wondered what had happened to her over the past years to make her lose her fluffy feathers. There were vague stories going about. Lascivious chat for the most part, probably no truer than a whore’s smile, but my how those gossips loved to linger on the sordid details. He hoped none of it was true, though he doubted he’d ever know for sure. Regardless, if he’d ever had the fortune to run into Ramsey after the fact, he would have made the monster eat his own balls. Not that that was necessary now, for Sansa’s dogs had done that for him. Was that why he felt so angry? He’d failed to protect her yet again and now he found that he could not approach her even at her request. The balance of power had shifted. At King’s Landing he had always felt superior, looking down at her physical weakness; her heart, her manners, her simpering fear, her blushing face, her soft downy feathers, her smallness. Now it was he who felt inferior. He cowered at her coldness, her straight steely tallness, her pale skin, her beauty, her strength, her ruthlessness and unshakeable stare. He was older now, weak, tired, broken, more scarred than anyone could imagine, haunted by his hate for his brother and the lack of warmth in his life. He was a dog in her wolf’s lair. All his life he had felt inferior and he hated it. His glower intensified as he slipped further into his self-loathing.

Tormund was being his usual self, moaning pitiful platitudes about losing some bitch to Jaime Lannister. His laments had brought over two of the serving girls, they looked hungry for company and were not too subtle about sharing their intentions. One of them had tried to proposition him but he had chased her off with a growl. He was in no mood to entertain anyone tonight. He was alone at the table for only a moment before the seat opposite him became occupied again. He was about to tell them to fuck off and leave him alone before he realised who it was that had joined him.

“She could have made you happy, for a little while.” Her red hair shone like warm embers. She’d come to seek him out and he found he was both angry and elated at the fact.

“There’s only one thing that’ll make me happy.” he said, but already knew that that was false. His mind flashed two images in front of him that elicited joyous feelings from him. One was his hands covered in Gregor’s blood and the other was his hands tumbled in that red hair.

“And what’s that?” she asked taking a sip of her drink. Her eyes trained on him again, reading his thoughts.

“That’s my fucking business.” He snapped back automatically, like the angry beaten dog he was.

Her back straightened but her eyes never wavered, her voice did not raise but became steelier and more commanding. “I am not some drink-serving tart that you can speak to as you please.”

Although she had not got any louder the change in her tone was so palpable that a couple of nearby guests looked nervous and moved further away from their table.

“Forgive me for forgetting my fucking courtesies little bird.” He snapped back sarcastically.

“Do not call me that.”

“What do you want me to call you then, eh?” he replied, still angry but already backing down.

“Lady.” Her tone softened; she had got her way.

“Yes, My Lady.” He drawled mockingly.

“No,” she replied, reaching for his hand on the table, “just Lady.”

They sat for a moment with her hand covering his. He wanted to keep the pretence of anger, but he would not move his hand away, he could not. His heart thumped loud in his chest. Eventually she was the one who removed her hand from his and took up her drink again.

“I asked you to come and speak to me this evening and you did not. I thought hounds were supposed to be obedient and loyal?”

He shrugged, thinking of an excuse. “They’re loyal until they’re hungry and then they’d bite your fucking fingers off. Your ex-husband would know all about that wouldn’t he?”

She smiled, it was a wolfish grin that never reached her eyes, “He certainly did by the end.” She stood taking her cup with her. “Come and join me in my parlour. I have something that I wish to ask you.”

His eyes trembled with uncertainty, “I haven’t finished my drink,” he stumbled.

Sansa blinked; a small sigh escaped her. “There’s Rue wine in my parlour,” her voice betrayed a hint of frustration before she smiled and leaned towards him, “a flagon of sour red, dark as blood. All a man needs. Unless your tastes have changed?”

He shook his head dumbfounded and she straightened. “Maryse will show you the way, when you are ready.” She indicated a nervous looking serving girl hovering by the doors of the great hall, and with a rustle of skirt she was gone once again.


	3. Chapter 3

He sat nursing his drink for another twenty minutes while he attempted to decipher what had happened. She wanted to ask him something, what could that be? She needed to do it in private which meant it was something sensitive. Could it be treasonous or personal? Why would she ask him and not anyone else? Afterall she had a sworn sword in Brienne of Tarth, if she wanted something doing then she was duty bound to obey. Unless it conflicted with her misguided bullshit about oaths of honour. Was that why Sansa wanted him? Did she want some dirty work done? His would be the best and most reliable hands to intrust that kind of work with. Still, she was surrounded by loyal Northmen so why would she ask him? Perhaps she wanted her half-brother dead? Or her sister? Or her crippled brother? Or that Sweetrobin cunt at the Vale, or her fucking cat- he didn’t know! And he supposed the only way he would know would be to speak to her in her parlour. He was sick of these guessing games.

Somehow, even angrier than before, he shoved his way from the table and stalked over to the girl at the door. She shrank even smaller as he came near and looked away from his face afraid. She reminded him of his lost little bird, it made his blood boil.

“Show me then girl.” He barked, “Don’t keep me waiting.”

“Yes, ser.” She squeaked and scuttled off down a corridor. He followed, his angry strides clattering noisily down the passageways of Winterfell.

A few moments later and he was stood in front of a large chamber door. A warm glow emanated from within and lit the passageway with its enticing light. He stood staring at the wood, wondering if he should go in. The serving girl hovered at his side.

“This is the room, ser.” She cheeped.

“I know,” he sniped back, “Fuck off.” She scuttled quickly away as he rapped on the door and entered.

Sansa was stood by a large grated fireplace on the opposite side of the room, she looked up as the door opened.

“Hound,” she rasped, “I knew you’d come.”

The room shimmered in an orange light cast from the fire and the candles strewn around. Sandor couldn’t help but noticed that she had changed her clothes and now stood in a loose fur lined velvet gown that belted closed with a golden chain. In the orange light the dress looked black, but as he drew nearer he could see that it was in fact a rich brown colour. It had large hanging sleeves that pooled slack around her hands. In fact, the more he studied it the less like a dress it looked at all, it was more like a floor length robe and its looser style exposed her neck and collar bones. Her hair was completely loose too and spilled over her shoulders in long tendrils. The informality of it struck him suddenly and he did not dare to approach her any closer. Instead he chose to hover awkwardly in the centre of the room.

“Let’s cut the fucking pretence.” He barked, irritated at he knew not what. “Who do you want me to kill?”

It was Sansa’s turn to look surprised. “What?”

“You want some dirty work done, some favour you couldn’t ask your own sworn sword. Well, here I am, so spit it out.”

“No, it’s not like that…”

“Don’t waste my fucking time Lady.” He turned to leave but she crossed to him quickly and touched his arm. At the feel of her hand on him he halted and turned back to look at her. She was so close now he could smell her perfume.

“Sit,” she commanded, and he scowled. “Sit, if you please, and listen to what I have to say.” She guided him to a sofa where an end table had been arranged with a flagon of wine and two glasses. “Drink.” She said softly and he looked at her sceptically. “It’s not fucking poisoned Clegane, just drink.” She huffed.

He laughed, “You have changed.” He sat and poured them both a glass of wine. She joined him and took a deep gulp.

After a moment she spoke, “It’s funny, I had planned out so carefully what I might say to you tonight, but now it all seems so difficult.”

Sandor was completely lost so he continued to say nothing.

“I suppose I should just take a leaf out of your book and be blunt about it. You think you know what happen to me here, but you don’t. You’ve only heard the tit-bit rumours that are talked around and about, but in truth no one knows what really happened in these rooms except for me and Bolton.”

“In here?” he asked, almost gently.

She nodded. “I…I understand now the importance of choice, of consent since I have never known pleasure in a man’s touch, only fear and dread. Most of all dread. I dreaded Joffrey’s touch, I dreaded what Tyrion might have demanded of me on our wedding night, I dreaded Littlefinger’s advances and every second of my marriage to Ramsey was a living hell. So you see, I have never known... I want to know if all the songs are lies.”

Very confused now, Sandor furrowed his brow, “Why did you ask me here Lady?”

She sipped her drink and forced herself to look him in the eye as she said, “I am asking if you will give me pleasure.”

Stunned he stood up and retreated away from her, pacing the room he rumbled, “No little bird, you don’t know what you’re asking.”

She crossed to him again and reached for him, “I am not a little bird anymore Sandor, surely you have noticed. Have you noticed?”

“Yes, I’ve noticed!” he roared, “Any man with eyes can see you’re the most beautiful woman in the North country.”

“And before in King’s Landing? I can see now how closely you watched out for me. You were a very diligent dog for your King. Though now I think that perhaps, looking back, I would run into you alone a few too many times for it to be accidental. Am I wrong?”

Not wanting to admit it he replied, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So, you never once thought of me in that way then? You never lamented with your dying breath the fact that you never got to, now how was it that Arya worded it, ‘fuck me bloody’ the night you kissed me?”

He winced at his own words once again and replied angrily, “Fuck off, I’ve never kissed you.”

“Yes you did,” her voice raised an octave, “that night the Blackwater burned. You waited for me in my bedchamber to offer to rescue me and when I refused you kissed me, tore off your Kingsguard cloak and left. Do you never think about that night? I do, I’ve thought of it often.”

“I never kissed you.” He hissed, surprised at her confession.

“You did.” She declared stubbornly, and her certainty at this falsehood infuriated him.

“Do you really think that I would have forgotten kissing you?” he raged, “For fuck’s sake, look at you! If I’d done it, I would have shouted the fact at every bastard who’d ever passed me in the street since!”

She looked doubtful for a moment as she saw the truth in his words. She had planned all of this based on a kiss that had never happened. Perhaps he didn’t desire her after all and never had.

He watched her strength falter for a moment and hated himself. He was unworthy of her in every way, but Gods he wanted her. He’d wanted her for years, and now here she was offering herself to him and still all he could be was cruel. She didn’t deserve that.

“You don’t want me little bird,” he said gently, “I’m old and broken. Broken in ways you can’t even fucking imagine. You could have any young kingly prick from here to Dorne, you don’t want me.”

“I do.” Her voice shook, “You’re the only man I trust not to hurt me.”

Her hands moved swiftly and her gown dropped to the floor. She stood before him naked with a challenge in her eyes.

He turned his back on her as soon as he realised what she’d done.

“For fuck’s sake, don’t,” he pleaded, his voice was strained.

“Look at me Sandor.” She commanded, “Look at me.”

He was weak, he was just a dog, a dog who hadn’t bedded in a woman in many many months and he wanted to look. Oh Gods, how he wanted to look! He turned and stared at her, his eyes drinking her in. For a moment he was mesmerised by her perky breasts and her shapely curves but then the details of her skin came into focus and he could see, at last, the myriad of scars that littered her abdomen. Burns, cuts and tears trailed down from her breasts like a red interwoven cobweb trapped in her skin. Some had healed to thin silvery threads; others were still angry and raised and bore markings of stiches. His face twisted in disgust and anger.

“You see,” she whispered, “you are not the only one who is broken.”

“That cunt Bolton did this to you?” his voice shook with rage. She nodded. “He’s lucky he is dead already because I would have ripped his fucking throat out.” His anger remained but he tried not to let it show. He did not want her to misread his disgust and think that it was she that he found distasteful. “Fuck him. Fuck him to the shit stained hell that you sent him to. You saw that he got his just desserts, and it was a good thing you did.” He crossed to her and with shaking hands touched her skin and pulling her close into him. “You’re still the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

“Why?” he asked, more of a rhetorical question than anything else. Why him? How did he get so lucky?

“Because your Lady demands it,” she replied, “and because apparently you never have before.”

He smiled and did as he was bid. Her taste on his lips sent a pulse of lightening through him that he felt right to the tip of his cock. She could feel his thick erection press against her hip as he held her.

“You should never have shown me kindness in King’s Landing if you didn’t want to be chosen as my champion,” she growled.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” he replied as he scooped her off her feet into his arms. She squealed with excitement and put her arms about his neck. “I reckon I must be the luckiest bastard in Westeros,” he mumbled as he carried her gently back to the sofa.


	4. She gets hers

Sandor was nervous for a couple of reasons. First, he had dreamt about this moment, masturbated over this moment for years now, but always he had pictured it for his own pleasure and not hers. He’d thought a lot about what he could have done that night when the Blackwater burned. How, with the sky swirling with green fire, she’d reach for him and he’d hold open her trembling thighs and fuck her deep and hard on that bed before leaving. There was never any imagining of her climax as it never even entered his mind. Second, in all his real-life previous experiences with women it had been, for the most part, short transactional encounters which likewise placed his pleasure above anything else. Did he even know how to please a woman in bed? Sansa should have chosen her champion better. Thirdly now the event was actually going to take place, now he was actually holding her naked in his arms and his cock throbbed wildly in excited anticipation he realised just how much he did not want to fail her. He did not want to hurt her or scare her the way that all those who had come before him had. He wanted to give her pleasure, a pleasure that she had never known, and he had never given. It was the blind leading the blind, the broken attempting to fix the broken.

He threw away everything that he had experienced before and thought of the opposite. It needed to be slow, intimate, he had to bring her to climax and he would not fuck her. This wasn’t about him; it was about her. He had to be there for her and not for himself and if he entered her he would forget that fact and rut her hard until his pleasures were met. His cock throbbed painfully at the thought, but he ignored it. He was no monster like that piece of shit Bolton, he could control himself and give her what she asked, if he could only work out what to do. He thought about what he might like if the tables were turned and decided to use that as his road map.

He lay her gently against the cushions and covered her with his body. She seemed to stiffen, a fearful look flashed across her face and he realised that he had already fucked up before he’d even really started.

“I won’t hurt you Lady.” His voice was gravely from his own arousal and he reached for her face and kissed her again. His knee rested between her legs and as he reached forwards to capture her mouth it leaned pressure against her pussy. A moan caught in her throat and her hips rose slightly to increase the feeling. This interested Sandor greatly. He kissed along her jawline to her ear where he rumbled, “I won’t fuck you, I won’t even get undressed, if you tell me to stop then I will stop.” As he kissed her ear she gasped and her back arched slightly. As he kissed her neck she moaned again and raised her hips to rub against his thigh crushing her pussy against him.

“Don’t stop.” She pleaded, her voice hoarse, her breath panted.

Gods she was beautiful, more beautiful than he had ever imagined.

He trailed his kissed down to her collar bone and was delighted to see her skin turn to goosepimples at his touch. Seeing how she reacted to him with such want was almost as good as tearing open his breeches and fucking her till he exploded… almost. As he moved further down her body it became necessary to move his legs and so he replaced the pressure on her pussy from his thigh to his hand. He snaked his fingers down her skin creating ripples and sighs from her as they went until eventually they rested on her cunt. Fuck, she was so wet. She was so fucking wet for him. It elicited an immense sense of pride or accomplishment from him and a deep throaty moan from her. He could imagine what she felt for he also loved the feel of a hand around his cock. He moved his fingers and they slipped easily between the wet folds of her pussy. He fumbled around for a moment before touching the slick swollen bud of her clit and her whole body jerked as though in pain.

“Are you alright little bird?” he growled into her ear as his wet finger slid again and again over the sensitive spot building a steady rhythm.

She couldn’t speak, she could only moan and nod her head. Sandor felt like a king, he had all the power in the world at his fingertips. He felt the tender nub get slicker as he circled it with his fingertip. It grew tighter and strained the more he rubbed, and her groans made him feel more and more powerful. He wondered what he should do next. He knew he loved having his cock sucked (Gods, the thought of Sansa doing that almost tipped him over the edge) perhaps she would like a similar treatment. He sat up away from her and began to stand.

She whimpered in disappointment and shuffled up to try and catch him, “Where are you going?”

“Patience Lady,” he barked as he knelt on the floor beside the sofa. Reaching for her hips he dragged them towards his chest, she fell back playfully against the cushions. He spread her shapely legs apart and moved one over his head and positioned it over his shoulder where it rested against the fabric of his tunic. His large hands splayed possessively over her stomach and he traced the lines of her scars with his thumbs. She was totally exposed to him now, her thighs spread wide, her pussy open to him, but she did not look afraid. She reached for his scarred face and cupped his cheek. He leaned into that touch and closed his eyes for a moment before bending low out of her reach and kissing her inner thigh. Her gasp was as wonderful as he’d hoped it would be. He kissed her lower still and she raised her hips in response. Her could feel the warmth of her cunt radiating against his cheek. He wanted to drown in the smell of her hot wet pussy that shuddered for him. She wanted him. She wanted him! Gods she wanted him. He bent his head low and his tongue parted her, wet and throbbing he found that straining nub and he began to lick. She moaned louder than before, desperate and yielding. He felt her moan shudder all the way through her body and into his, right to the tip of his raw aching cock that wanted to burst. Her fists were grasping the cushions around her, hands balled so tight that the knuckles were white. Her knees and thighs shook, straining under the onslaught of his tongue warm and supple rubbing against a part of her cunt that she barely knew existed. Faster he went and louder she moaned. He felt drunk on his power. What else did he like when there was a warm mouth around his cock? He liked it when their hands went to cup his balls. Of course, women didn’t have an exact equivalent to that, but his hands were idle so he did the only thing he could think of and slipped a thick finger inside of her and slowly, rhythmically, slid it in and out of her as his tongue continued its caress. Her reaction was instantaneous.

Her breathy moan caught in her words as she exclaimed “Ah fuck!” in a voice that sounded strained and on the edge.

He was a God now. He liked her even more with profanities on her lips. She moaned in the rhythm of his movements, tongue, finger, tongue, finger, tongue, finger, lapping at her wet cunt like a dog at his water bowl. Her skin was trembling, her legs shaking, and with quivering fingers she wound her way through his hair at the back of his head and held him in place. Like he would think of going anywhere, he was delirious with his power over her. Her body tensed as the pace continued and her hips rose upwards to meet his tongue and she cried, “Ah, fuck, yes, yes!” as with a gulping breath she came apart shattering into a thousand pieces. He could feel her spasm tight around his finger, and she was so wet they they’d created a damp patch on the sofa below her hips.

He did not move for several seconds, remembering how he hated to be disturbed directly after he had come. But eventually he did take a shaking step away from her, concerned that he could not trust himself to not want more. He watched her from this short distance as she came back to herself and sat up.

She stared at him in that wolfish way she had.

“Take off your clothes,” she demanded.


	5. He gets his

The Hound stood unmoving in the middle of her parlour. Why did he delay? She could see plainly how much he wanted her; his thick erection strained angrily against the fabric at his crotch. She hadn’t been sure that she would want that part of him, part of her had been relieved when he said that he would not fuck her or even undress. After Bolton the thought of that act made her feel afraid and sick. But now after what he had given her, she found that she wanted him, all of him, immediately and without delay.

She stood shakily from the sofa, her knees were still weak. “Take off your clothes,” she stated slowly, punctuating each word with a little pause.

He shook his head, but he did not move as she padded towards him. He stood still for the most part, except for his heaving chest, staring at her naked form as she approached. She reached for the top buckle of his tunic.

“Stop.” He rasped.

She did as he asked but sighed, “Why must everything be an argument with you Sandor?”

His breath hitched as she purred his name, she liked that. She never thought, being as exposed as she was, that’d she’d ever feel this powerful. Taking his face in both hands she leant her whole body into him. The rough woollen knit of his straining breeches felt coarse against her hip and stomach. She pressed herself against his rigid girth and the catch in his throat made it worth it.

She tried again, “You don’t want me Sandor? You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

His voice sounded as strained as his crotch felt, it had a dreamy quality that she found most endearing, “Course I want you. It’s taking every ounce of my self-control to not throw you down on this floor right now and fuck you till my head explodes.”

“Why don’t you?” she whispered and pecked his lips.

He pushed her away gently, “Because,” he sounded angry now and more like his usual self, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“Yes, little bird, if I had my way, I would. I wouldn’t mean to, but I would.” He raked a hand through his hair and rubbed his chin in thought. “Also, I don’t want you to feel as though you have to, as though _we_ have to, just because of what I…”

She cut him off, “I am not suggesting it to repay the favour. If I didn’t want to then I’d thank you politely and go to my bed now. I’d fall asleep quite contentedly and without any guilt, you can believe that.” She folded herself into him again, “I am suggesting it because I want it. I want you, all of you.”

She could physically feel his reservations melt away. At her words the tension and fight left his shoulders completely. His resistance was gone instantly, and his hands immediately tangled in her long hair. He drew her in for a fierce kiss that snapped her neck back and stole her breath completely.

“Oh, little bird.” He murmured onto her lips. One hand cupped her breast and squeezed it tight whilst the other caressed her backside. Everything about him was so big; his hands, his arms, his chest, his dick. He could so easily scoop her up, hold her down and do whatever he pleased with her, and yet he stood there kissing her still fully dressed. She pushed away from him and walked backwards towards the sofa.

“Now, Sandor. Take. Off. Your. Fucking. Clothes.”

He smiled as he began to do as she asked, “You’ve a filthy mouth on you now Lady,” he complimented.

“I learned from the best.” She drawled, but her lips stilled as she gawped at the Hound. He stood before her completely naked. His thick muscled arms lay still and powerful at the sides of a wide chest that was smattered with patches of dark hair and various scars. His stomach was toned and lean but not overly muscled and it tapered into slightly narrower hips and below that she saw…she saw…well, that he was all in proportion. His thick stiff cock fascinated and thrilled her for a second and then suddenly she was nervous. What if she couldn’t do this after all? She was acting the great temptress but really what did she know about coupling other than to dread it? But, she realised with elation, she did not actually feel dread now. Instead she felt exhilarated, wet, excited and eager and her throbbing body told her to want that which she had feared until now. She pushed the worries aside.

“Come here.” She growled, and he crossed to her quickly.

The feel of his skin on hers was intoxicating. She found her hands wanted to touch him everywhere, she wanted to know every inch of him. She kissed him desperately, dragging his lips down to meet hers, devouring him hungrily. She was pressed into him but even on her tiptoes he still had to stoop his neck to meet her kiss. After a few moments his neck and back began to ache so he grabbed her legs just below her glorious arse cheeks and lifted her up so they could be eye to eye. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around him to support herself. She was a tall woman and still he had lifted her as though she weighed nothing. She recalled her childish imaginings of brave knights and fair maidens, how she had always pictured being swept off her feet in a pretty dress by a hero in shining armour. How differently things had turned out, but she had got her true knight in the end. She trailed kisses across his ruined face and rued the day that her skittish younger self had ever winced at the sight of it.

He staggered backwards and felt the soft furnishings brush the backs of his legs so sat down. Now he could lean back a little and look at her straddling him. Oh, those tits! Those fucking perky, perfectly hand sized tits! He wanted to bury his face in them and suffocate, he’d at least then die a happy man. His cock was hard against her navel, but by the way they were sitting he could feel the warm slickness of her cunt up against the base of it. He became worried that this would soon tip him over the edge, and he’d come on her stomach before he’d even had a chance to be inside her. His dick had been twitching from the moment she’d first suggested he pleasure her, and he wasn’t sure how much longer it would control itself.

Sansa also noticed how close he was to her wet aching lips and thought how easy it would be to simply lower herself onto him. She had never known of lovemaking from that position. The idea that she could be on top and not held under a man’s weight, crushed by his body to endure his whims, appealed to her greatly. Still kissing his face, she reached down between them and tentatively touched his cock. His reaction was immediate as his whole body jerked and he hissed a breath into his lungs. She wrapped her hand around it and squeezed gently and he moaned. Never before had she felt so in control, never before did she feel such a sense of power, and that was just with her hand. She recalled a memory from long ago, _“Tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The best one's between your legs.”_ She’d never known the truth of that statement until this very moment, and it made her angry to have to admit that that hateful woman might had been right.

 _She’ll be dead soon_. She thought as she lifted herself up, and it was with that happy thought that she slid herself onto his thick hot shaft. With a gasp all thoughts of Cersei were gone. Sandor filled her utterly but there had been no pain at all. His girth stretched her in all directions, but she had been so ready for him that it had felt entirely wonderful. His gasping and almost pained moan of “Ah, fuck! Little bird!” was entirely wonderful too. His hands held her rib cage, her arms were around his neck. She looked him straight in the eyes and said:

“It’s Lady.”

She ground her hips forward and he moaned again. She liked that. She like that a lot. She could feel his shuddering heartbeat vibrating in her own chest. She rocked again and again, slowly. She’d milk every last trembling moan out of his body.

“You’ll, ah, always be, ugh, little bir..ah..d bird to me,” he panted.

She rested her forehead on his and did not stop grinding. Gods it felt good, he felt good inside and she felt completely in control. She was wicked though, she wanted to create some mischief. She raised herself off him slightly by pulling her weight up using her arms and his shoulders for balance. The feeling of sliding up him was quite lovely but the feeling of crashing back down onto his cock was something else entirely. She felt the rut through every nerve in her body, she even loved the slapping sound their flesh made when they fully reconnected, but most of all she adored the strained moan it elicited from Sandor now she was indeed fucking him.

“It’s Lady.” She growled as she rose slowly again and then slipped down his thickness quickly with a satisfying slap of skin.

Sandor was beside himself. He didn’t know what he was saying anymore. Words? What were they?

“Aah, Sansa, fuck, yes, yes…”

His grip tightened on her rib cage as he urged her up again.

“It’s…” she crashed down, “Lady.” She fucked him again. “Say it.” Again. “Say it.” Again. “Say it.” Again.

His hands moved to her arse as she fucked him harder and quicker than before. He was losing his goddamn grip on reality with every wet slap of flesh as her cunt came back down on his throbbing cock. Did she know what she was doing to him? None of his previous experience had prepared him for this. With every thrust of her shapely thighs she created a thousand tiny lightning bolts that ran down his spine and through to the very tip of his throbbing erection. She rode him faster, harder. Fucking him into madness. He didn’t know his own thoughts anymore all he could do was feel. His whole body had just become one huge nerve ending and she was caressing it to the point where he thought he might die. All he knew was that his dick was about to fucking explode and that he might adore this red-haired witch. His hips rose now too with each of her falls and the slapping sound of their bodies intersecting grew louder and faster as he began to rut. She was going to make him lose his fucking mind.

“Lady, ah, fuck! Ah, my fucking Lady.” He gripped her possessively.

She was making little noises now too, grunting under the onslaught of his cock moving hard and fast into her as she rode him, rise and fall, rise and fall. She was so tight. Warm and slick her pussy had enveloped him snugly as though his cock belonged there, sword and sheath meeting at last. His hips rose more as the end drew closer. He had no choice but to drive into her more, more, more. His hips moved on a primal instinct as her pussy milked him of every drop of pleasure that she could extract. She took him higher than he had ever been before and as he reached the pinnacle his hands dug desperately into her the soft flesh of her buttocks. It was with two final hard crashing thrusts that he saw the stars and exploded inside of her with an urgent guttural cry.

He sat panting, sweating, his eyes heavy, his dick still twitching and with lightening still dancing up his spine. It took a moment for him to focus and come back to the room. It was as though he were floating somewhere outside of himself, more content than he had ever felt in his entire life. Sansa was kissing him, she was still on top of him and he was still inside of her. He made his eyes focus and eventually she came into view. She was looking at him smiling. She had the look of the wolf now.

“My Lady.” He mumbled in his cracked voice.

She laughed lightly and nuzzled him, “Would you like some wine, ser?”


	6. Chapter 6

They lounged together on the sofa both sipping glasses of wine. Sandor had redonned his breeches but remained shirtless and Sansa was on her side snuggled into his chest still completely naked. She had attempted to put on her robe, but Sandor had grunted, “Absolutely not,” and thrown it to the other side of the room. The heat from the fire and from his skin meant that she didn’t feel cold and so she hadn’t protested. She wondered if he knew that his fingers were stroking her arm. He wasn’t looking at her and they hadn’t spoken for many minutes now, but his body showed no signs of leaving and his hands were caressing her possessively. They both lay languid and stared into the crackling fire.

“What will you do?” she asked evenly. She was prepared to accept any answer that he might give.

“I don’t know.” He replied honestly.

“What were you going to do before this evening?”

“I was going back to King’s Landing.”

This surprised her. “Why?”

“My brother needs to die.”

“Our Targaryen Queen will see to that.” She could not hide the hint of bitterness in her voice.

“Or your sister.” He added, sipping his drink. Sansa did look up at him then at the mention of Arya. “He’s on her list.” He explained and she nodded in comprehension.

She sipped her own drink and returned to staring at the fire. “I think, you should stay here with me.”

She felt his body tense under her suggestion.

“Tonight?” he asked, still not looking at her.

“Tonight, tomorrow, forever.”

His hands tightened on her, “You don’t mean that,” he said sadly.

She sat upright in indignation and looked him in the eyes, “Don’t tell me what I think and feel,” she commanded.

“You don’t owe me anything.” He stated, cupping her face with the palm of his injured left hand.

“I know.” She said as she wound her fingers through his.

He sighed, almost annoyed. “Well, I suppose I’m fucking staying then.”

She smiled. He really was the mean-tempered dog that snaps at any hand that tries to pet him.

“And don’t think,” he continued angrily, “that I’m staying because you fixed my hand and I feel like I’ve got any duty or debts to repay. If you think that, then you’re a fucking idiot.”

Her smile never faltered, she even let the insult slide this time. She knew now that this was his way of trying to scare her away, but she would not be moved. She would never be frightened of him ever again, he knew it and that in turn frightened him.

“I won’t!” she replied merrily.

“I don’t give a shit about who is King or Queen or the fucking Three-eyed Raven.” He mumbled quietly, almost to himself. “And,” he raised his voice again, “don’t think I’m staying because you felt pity for an ugly old fucker like me and made him happy for one night.”

Now he was insulting himself she had to interject. She suspected that these were true fears he held. “Do you really think that I’d do this out of pity?”

“Why else would you have done it, eh?”

She took his face in both her hands and tried to make him look at her to see the truth in her words. “I did it because I have not thought about doing it with any other man since I was 15 years old. When I was younger, I met a man. He was the meanest, most disagreeable horrid bastard that I had ever met at that point in my life. And yet, he showed me a sort of kindness and looked after me on several occasions when he was never under any obligation to and that might have even put him in danger. He never asked for anything in return. He made me see the world in a different way, in a more truthful way and I haven’t stopped thinking about him since. That’s why.”

He gazed into her face lost for a moment, “Oh,” he grunted.

She smiled, released him and settled back onto his chest.

After a quiet moment she asked, “Why are you staying then?” and heard his heartbeat intensified.

“Almost eight years ago I saw something that I wanted.” His voice was gruff but honest. “I told myself that I’d never be able to have it, so I did nothing. In fact, I left it to the fucking lions. I regretted that as soon as it happened. I never thought I’d see her again. I thought I’d die or she’d die or that we’d always be stuck at the opposite ends of the fucking map. But then, out of nowhere, she comes back into my life. And I know I’m not a lucky enough bastard to tempt fate twice, so now I’ll never leave her side again. Not for any reason.”

Her heart was full to bursting and her arms squeezed him tight.

“Not for any reason.” She repeated.

They stared off into the flames entangled in each other until the hearth burnt to nothing more than its glowing embers.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's follow up head-cannon: Really the rest of season 8 plays out as it did in the series except that The Hound does not go to King's Landing and it is Arya who kills Gregor. When Sansa becomes Queen of The North she and Sandor marry and he takes on the Stark name as the Queen's consort.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos on this, I will be replying to each one now that the writing is completed. I can't believe how quickly this story flew out of me! It just goes to show that I should have written it down ages ago.


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